


A New Captain

by LitRaptor42



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Deckhand Captain Hook | Killian Jones, F/M, Gen, I just want more Milah, Milah Defense Squad, millian, what even is this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 04:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12357042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitRaptor42/pseuds/LitRaptor42
Summary: What if Milah had met Deckhand Hook instead of Captain Killian Jones? Oneshot.





	A New Captain

When Milah meets her first pirate in the local tavern, it’s the one, the only, John Silver. He’s an arrogant sod, but at least he doesn’t leer or try to smack her ass like some of the other filthy wretches: from what she’s heard, the man’s gay as a nightingale. And she reckons that at least she’ll have adventures on the high seas. She just needs out. 

So she sidles up Silver, offering to join his crew. It turns out he just made one of the topsmen walk the plank for drinking too much grog, so he shrugs, takes a drink, and belches. “All right, woman, let’s see what you’ve got,” he says.

She leaves her family behind and climbs aboard the Jolly Roger. It’s not a happy crew: Silver’s a murderous bastard who rules by fear and blood. Milah’s still struggling to learn all the ropes and tackles and sails so she doesn’t give it much thought at first, but when they reach their first large village, she’s given a rusty old cutlass and a mask. She crashes through the surf with the other crew members, terrified but with adrenaline rushing through her veins - and when a man comes roaring at her, his own sword raised, she runs him through.

It’s her first taste of blood - and she doesn’t like it. She wanted freedom, not murder.

They continue raiding and pillaging - months pass, and Milah easily rises through the ranks. After all, she’s fearless, has a smart mouth and a good tolerance for rum, and has picked up the art of the sword quickly, so she can beat the living daylights out of any man who challenges her. Most of the men admire her; a few lust for her; and one man, the one-handed sailor who swabs the lower decks, lies in his hammock every night and dreams of her green eyes.

Milah, for her part, rarely notices the man, the lowest of the low ranks: and when she does, it’s with a faint sense of pity and distaste, since it’s when one of the other crewmen (usually the hulking bosun) is kicking him aside or beating him for some transitory mistake. His cowering obeisance to them reminds her uncomfortably of Rumple. 

She thinks of her son from time to time, hoping that he knows she made the right decision by leaving. But she’s fallen in love again, this time with the sea, and there’s no going back. She spends much of her time high in the rigging, and begins to learn the names of the stars, the birds and the aquatic life. She can tell the weather from the color of the clouds and the sea, and as her hands grow calloused from the ropes, she finds herself always looking toward the horizon, yearning for more.

~

After a year or so, Milah starts to hear rumbles of anger amongst the crew: they suspect they’re getting bilked by the captain, who’s as greedy as the day is long and keeps all the best plunder for himself.

She’s been keeping some of the captain’s records for him - although he doesn’t have a first mate or any officers, she’s good with numbers and he’s come to trust her - so she knows they’re right. And she loathes Silver, too, just not for his laziness and greed. It’s because he happily kills children, the half-grown girls and boys who try to defend their farms and homes against raiding pirates. “Little bastards just grow up to be big bastards,” he’s fond of saying. She thinks of Baelfire, and wonders if he’s grown up to be like his father, or whether he could defend himself.

One night she gathers the boldest, most trustworthy men and whispers a single word to them: mutiny. If they take over the ship and elect a new captain, the spoils of their raids can be equally shared. Milah stands firm on one thing - there will also be no more spilling of children’s blood.

The men agree, and the next night they steal into the captain’s cabin and march him onto the deck. Not all the crew are in agreement with the mutiny, and Milah finds herself swinging a sword against her own mates.

But before long the mutineers prevail, and Silver is standing at the edge of a plank. There’s a few words, some sneering and taunting, and they give him over to the sharks. Milah herself steps forward with her cutlass, now polished to a bright shine, and pushes him over the edge.

Afterwards, she steps forward confidently, expecting that she’ll be rewarded for her boldness. But the bosun, a man who’s never liked her and was never part of the mutiny in the first place, swaggers up: and before she can get a word in, he declares that as the highest-ranking member of the crew, he should be their new captain.

To her astonishment, some of the crew begin to nod in approval. She protests, her voice deep with anger: she organized the mutiny, she’s the most skilled amongst them, and the role of captain should be hers! 

There’s a rumble of dissent, the men looking uneasily at each other. The bosun is an enormous man, rippling with muscles, which he’s now flexing as he faces her with a sneer. A  _ woman _ as their captain? And a new crew member, to boot - why, she’s never even sacked a major port yet! He’ll lead them with just as bold and bloody a hand as Silver ever did.

Milah argues and sneers back mockingly; but she can sense that support from the crew is waning, that fear of the bosun is going to win. No wonder Silver was able to rule these men for so long - they’re weak, all of them.

And so it nearly takes her breath away when a single voice pipes up from the far side of the deck. “She’s right.” 

Everyone turns, and the man cowers at the intensity of so many eyes on him at once. It’s the young deckhand, trembling with fear, but his fist is clenched and his own eyes are fixed on her. Milah doesn’t even know his real name; they all just call him Hook, after the implement he’s affixed to his left arm in place of a hand.

“Got something to say, you snivelling little turd?” demands the bosun, stamping forward.

Milah expects the deckhand to sink backwards, begging for his life. But although terror has the whites showing all round his wide blue eyes - a sharp and bright blue, she realizes; the color of sunshine on the waves - he grits his jaw and draws himself up, meeting the bosun’s murderous glare. 

“Aye. She l-led the mutiny,” Hook stammers. “W-we need a captain who cares about the crew. And you... you don’t.”

There’s a ripple of snickering from the crew, but a murmur of agreement as well. _ Kick a dog enough times, and eventually it will bite back _ , Milah thinks with admiration, remembering all the times the bosun mercilessly flogged the poor man for spilling a water bucket or daring to laugh at a joke.

The bosun just scoffs, raises a huge fist, and slams it into the deckhand’s face. Hook drops to the deck like a sack of potatoes, wheezing and spitting blood. 

Instinctively, Milah whips her sword from its scabbard and steps forward. The men part, and slowly the bosun turns to face her.

“We may be pirates,” she says coldly, and lifts her sword, “but there is no honor in preying on weaker men. You’re no better than Silver.”

She pauses, eyeing him, then adds, “And you’re even uglier, to boot.”

Now the crew laughs in earnest. She’s earned their attention; now she just has to earn their respect. The bosun draws his sword, his face grim and furious with rage, and comes at her.

The fight lasts only a few minutes; it seems like hours. Milah is quicker, more agile, more skilled even, but the bosun is strong, attacking like a bull. She’s soon gasping for breath as they range back and forth across the deck, the men leaping out of their way, perched on the rails and in the rigging, cheering and yelling taunts.

Sensing her weakness, the bosun launches forward; but Milah drops down and ducks under his sword, then slashes at his knees, ripping open the cloth and sending a spray of blood onto the deck. The huge man bellows and collapses, and she scrambles to her feet to set the point of her sword against his neck.

A cheer goes up from the crew. “Go ahead, girl,”  the bosun sneers, and spits, squinting against the bright sun. “Do your worst.”

~

So she does: as their new captain, she orders the man to be put into full irons in the brig. Then she summarily ignores him, sending down food and water only when it seems necessary to keep him alive. And three weeks later, as they’re sailing perilously close to the shores of the Enchanted Forest, she puts him overboard, into the shallow waters where the Royal Navy patrols. 

Let those patriotic imbeciles take care of him, Milah thinks grimly. Maybe they’ll hang him, maybe not. She doesn’t care.

In the meantime, she’s paid little attention to the deckhand who single-handedly (literally) saved her captaincy. Too busy learning how to navigate, sorting out the crew’s new responsibilities, and sweating her way through the process of becoming a commander, she has no time to spare. 

On the shores of Arandelle, they pick up a trio of women looking for work, surly and stringy and probably whores. Milah sends them into the rigging as topsmen, to replace two drunkards and a man who regularly gambled away every penny he owned. She has no patience for the weak-minded, and takes every opportunity to replace them with more trustworthy men. Or women, rather; on the whole, she finds those of her own gender to be more reliable and often more skilled than men.

The crew is happier; they’re amply paid, since the Jolly Roger now sails as a machine of plunder, not murder. They raid brigs carrying weaponry to the Enchanted Forest, barques from the Southern Isles filled with rich spices and cloths, and little schooners bearing sweet fruits and coffee. Once, though, they run across a slaver bound for the far West; they disable the ship and tow it to the nearest island, their stomachs turning at the packed masses of flesh belowdecks. It’s the only time Milah breaks her rule about killing the crewmen aboard ships they board: after freeing the slaves, she orders that all the officers be put to the sword for their inestimable crimes.

Months pass, and at last Milah muses that it’s finally been long enough that the crew won’t think twice if she softens toward one particular sailor. She summons the young deckhand to her cabin during the night watch.

He arrives rubbing sleepy eyes, and stammers something unintelligible as he steps into the richly furnished little room. Milah silences him with a raised hand, rises to close the door behind him, then leans back against it. 

“I gather the men have been treating you better as of late,” she says, raising her brows. “Not so much of a scapegoat, are you?”

The deckhand, Jones - his first name is the improbably graceful moniker of ‘Killian’; she’s had to learn all their names now - ducks his head gratefully. “Aye, sir,” he answers, looking relieved. “Hardly ever anymore.”

Milah smiles, nodding. “Well, a man who fights for what he believes in should get what he deserves,” she says, but softly. “What do you think you deserve from me, Jones?”

His eyes go wide at that. With only a single candle lit, it’s too dark to see their bright hue, but she can see that he’s a handsome boy, all dark brows and fine bones, with a lean and muscled body beneath his threadbare shirt. She can practically smell his desire, too, its acrid electricity even stronger than his fear. It’s been years since she looked at a man like this, knowing that he wants her as much as she wants him, and she finds herself enjoying it.

“I-I don’t... erm...” he stutters, shuffling his feet, and falls silent. 

And Milah realizes that he simply doesn’t know: has absolutely no idea what his bravery was worth, let alone what he wants out of it. She’s never seen him in the taverns or brothels when they take shore leave in the villages, and she wonders what he does during that time.

Still, she waits. There’s no point in  _ telling _ him, after all. He finally takes a breath, the words all coming out in a rush. “I want to learn to read,” he blurts.

Milah blinks, taken aback. She’d assumed that some of the crew were illiterate, but it wasn’t as if anyone other than the captain and the most senior crew needed the ability to read, anyway. 

Even in the dim light, she can see that Jones’ cheeks are blazing, his gaze locked on the floor. “All right. May I ask why...  _ that? _ ” she asks curiously.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, his throat working. With a sigh, Milah goes behind her desk and beckons him to sit across from her. Looking awed, he obeys, settling gingerly into the plain wooden chair as if it’s a rich velvet throne.

“Now,” she says reasonably, and reaches into her cupboard to withdraw a decanter of rum. “You want to learn to read. That’s fine, it’s a useful skill. Just...” 

She pauses in the act of pouring a drink for herself, and gestures meaningfully to her cup. Jones catches on and shakes his head, the motion almost frantic. Milah shrugs and caps the decanter, then settles back into her own comfortable chair, sipping at the rum. “You know that I would never have been captain if you hadn’t spoken up, right?” she asks, gently. 

It’s more of a rhetorical question than a real query, but Jones shrugs in response, plainly uncomfortable. Milah feels a tinge of frustration, and leans forward, intent. “What about Gunn? You knew he’d take any excuse to further trod you down,” she insists. “Yet you took the beating anyway, just to give me a chance at proving myself. You could have been killed or maimed, but... all you’re asking for is a bloody book or two?”

Jones shifts, staring into his lap and picking aimlessly at his thumbnail with the tip of his hook. She wonders if he’s from a place in the Enchanted Forest where reading is prized amongst certain castes; if his illiteracy is more than just the result of a childhood spent at sea.

“W-what should I ask for, then?” he says at last, with a brief, hopeless glance at her. “I don’t want money, or a promotion. I just...”

He sighs. “I like stories, I suppose,” he admits, his voice soft. “One of the crew used to read to us sometimes, but he died a long time ago, and...”

His voice dies out again, the light fading from his eyes a bit. Stories. Milah stares at him, something inside her clenching. She knows what it’s like to live on imaginative tales; to be resigned to one’s dull existence, but to breathe the air and walk the shores of far-off, exotic lands by way of the written word.

The room is still around them, no sound but the creak of the ship’s timbers, the thrumming of lines, the distant wash of water against her hull. Milah takes another sip of her rum and ponders on her own happiness; on her only regret; on what might silence the unease of each night, dreaming of her boy.

Finally she sets down the glass and rises from her chair, coming around the desk. Jones tries to stand, but before he makes it more than a few inches, she slips onto his lap, straddling his legs. He gasps and sits back down, eyes round with astonishment, and freezes like a statue as she dips her head and brushes her lips against his, soft and unresisting.

“Is this what you want?” she murmurs, pulling away. 

He’s closed his eyes, long lashes resting against his cheeks, and they quiver as he silently nods. His hand is clenched so tightly that she can feel his arm vibrating.

Milah smiles, and presses another kiss to his lips. This time he responds, tentatively opening his mouth a bit; she swipes her tongue inside, and is rewarded with a deep groan. When she reaches down to brush her fingertips against his crotch, it turns to a strangled wheeze, his eyes popping open.

She can’t help chuckling, but it’s with fondness. She likes this brave, shy boy, with his deep-hidden desires and dreams. “Come on,” she says, and pulls him upright with her. “We’ll get to your stories another time, all right?”

~

Later, as she’s lying wrapped in his arms, the faint rumble of his breathing tickling her ear, she reflects that it might never be love. Maybe all they’ll ever have is respect, trembling courage, and lust. And perhaps he’ll never know of her own love of stories; then again, perhaps she’ll teach him to read and write, and read stories of his own imagining. 

But for now, it’s enough. He’s enough. And perhaps someday, there will be more.

  
  



End file.
